


Help Me Down

by thepinupchemist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester, Cutting, Depressed Dean, Depression, Doctor Castiel, Doctor/Patient, It has a happy ending I swear, M/M, Smut, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester suffers from depression and has taken a recent turn for the worse. When he calls to make an appointment with his doctor, he finds out his doctor has retired and a new doctor has taken his place at the office. Dean expects a routine in-and-out appointment. He doesn't expect the new doctor to be so...perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trinity11000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity11000/gifts).



> Trigger warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, cutting.

**Help Me Down**

**Soundtrack: Polarize – twenty one pilots**

“What do you mean Doctor Phillips doesn’t work there anymore?” Dean echoed into the phone, “He’s been my doctor since I was _seven_ –”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester,” said the receptionist, “Doctor Phillips retired last month. We sent out notices to all his patients. I apologize if you didn’t receive yours.”

Dean eyed the mountain of mail on his coffee table, all unopened. He sighed and replied, “No, no. I probably…forgot. Is there anyone else at the office that I could see? It’s important.”

The sound of a keyboard clicking carried over the line, and the receptionist said, “It looks like our newest doctor is taking new patients. He has an open slot on Wednesday morning. Would you like me to set you up for a ten o’clock appointment that day with Doctor Novak?”

“Uh,” Dean said. He didn’t want to meet a new doctor, damn it, but he kind of had to. If he didn’t this would all just get worse and worse and then Sammy would visit and find Dean the way he found him that one time five years ago, the time that they Do Not Talk About. Dean cleared his throat and answered, “Yeah. That sounds great.”

“All right, Mr. Winchester,” the receptionist said, “I’ve got you set up for a ten o’clock this Wednesday with Doctor Novak. And what did you say this appointment is regarding?”

“Depression,” muttered Dean.

“Okie-dokie, Mr. Winchester,” she continued, “You’ll get a reminder e-mail the night before your appointment. I hope you have a _glorious_ day.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “Yeah, you too.”

The receptionist hung up the phone before Dean could. He pocketed his cell and took in his surroundings. His apartment was a wreck, but there was no Sammy in it to scold Dean and sweep candy wrappers into the trash, no one to hold Dean accountable for being a messy waste of humanity but Dean himself. He was not good at holding himself accountable for things. No, he would rather just sleep than think about all the shit he would have to do to make his apartment look as though a functioning person lived in it.

Exhausted for no reason other than his own existence, Dean collapsed on the mattress he called his bed. His bedroom looked even worse than the rest of the house, blackout curtains snapped closed, dirty laundry piled onto every available surface, more candy wrappers and half-drunk coffee mugs whose contents were becoming universes of their own under Dean’s neglectful eye.

He should have gotten up.

He should _really_ have gotten up.

But instead, Dean let himself sit on his bed with his mind at a dull, painful buzz. It was the buzz that said he wasn’t doing anything right, that his life had no direction, that despite having dreams and aspirations and people that purportedly loved him, that he was a waste of space. The buzz said that it didn’t matter that people might be sad for a little while if he died; they’d get over it. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t there to try and accomplish his childhood dreams; somebody else would fill those shoes, and ultimately, the world would only be short one less miserable guy that couldn’t even sweep candy wrappers off of his coffee table.

**X**

The doctor’s office was the same doctor’s office that Dean had been going to since he was seven and his mom pulled him in for a bad fever. Back then, the walls had been off-white, the chairs some kind of honey oak with god-awful upholstery, a Bambi mural on the wall past a fish tank, where they kept all the toys and an abused chalkboard.

Now a honey-brown covered oblong, modernized walls, while a toothpaste commercial played on a flatscreen television mounted high, up against the ceiling.

Dean thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and shuffled past an elderly woman sitting in one of the waiting chairs behind a walker and an older issue of _People_. He lingered at the front desk until the bright-eyed receptionist noticed his presence.

“Hi there, are you here for an appointment?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said, grabbing at the back of his neck, “Uh. Dean Winchester for a ten o’clock with Doctor, um. Novak? I think.”

“Yup, I got you scheduled right here,” she replied, “I’ll let Doctor Novak know that you’re here and we’ll come grab you when he’s ready, if you’d just take a seat anywhere you’d like.”

Dean murmured a terse ‘thank you’ and took a seat several chairs down from the woman with the walker and the magazine. He fidgeted, wishing that he had a drink in his hand or music in his ears, and generally wanting to be anywhere but the place that he was in that moment. The longer that it took for somebody to appear and collect him, the lower Dean sunk down into his chair.

A slim, dark-haired nurse in lilac-colored scrubs rounded the corner into the waiting room and said, “Dean Winchester?”

Dean lifted his hand and stood. The nurse introduced herself as Ruby, and led him through a playground of medical equipment, taking down his weight and height, and guiding him to a small examination room where she recorded his pulse and blood pressure. She asked a few cursory questions about Dean’s medication and exercise habits (Yes, Dean took his meds, but unless exercise included traveling from his mattress to the fridge then he was basically a barnacle) before she said, “All right, Doctor Novak will be in to see you shortly, Dean.”

Dean recalled that Doctor Phillips had decorations abound in his exam room. Doctor Novak’s décor seemed limited to his medical license and degrees in minimalist frames. He didn’t have any mascot bobbleheads or even instructional posters on self breast examinations, like Dean’s old Doctor. Damn it, why did people age? Dean had been comfortable with Phillips. What happened if he didn’t like this new guy?

A knock sounded at the exam room door, and a beat later, Doctor Novak entered.

Well, fuck.

Of all the things Dean revved himself up to fear in his new doctor’s examination room, none of them included the possibility that his doctor might be _hot_. His dark hair crested his head in what looked like sex-hair but was probably a result of running fingers through it over and over again. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

“Dean Winchester?” Doctor Novak said, and he turned world’s most intense set of baby blues on Dean’s face.

“Uh,” Dean managed, “Yeah. That’s me.”

“It says here that you’re in for complications with your depression,” Doctor Novak said, “Tell me about that.”

That snapped Dean out of the trance well enough. Sure, he was in an exam room alone with friggin’ Doctor Sexy, here, but no Doctor Sexy would be interested in Dean’s fucked-up head? He grabbed at the back of his neck and said, “So, my little brother moved out of our apartment, and –”

“You and your brother are close?” asked Doctor Novak.

“Yeah, pretty close,” Dean answered, “Well, we were. He’s kinda – kinda got a new life now. And I’m happy for him and all, but that doesn’t leave me with much to go on.”

“Are there money issues?” asked Doctor Novak.

“No,” Dean said, “I do okay. I mean, not _great_. But I scrape by. I don’t need much.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Sammy moved out to live with his fiancée, Jessica. They’re real sweet. But…uh. I’m alone, now. And my meds were working fine but now it’s almost like they’re not doing anything. I wake up and all I want to do is to go back to sleep. I’m never hungry but all I want to do is eat. You get me?” asked Dean.

“I see,” Doctor Novak said, “I see here that you’re currently on Zoloft?”

“Yeah, and Welbutrin,” Dean answered.

“Your Welbutrin is at the maximum dose, but I can up your Zoloft another 50 mg. Is that something that you’d be interested in doing?” asked Doctor Novak.

“Yeah…sounds good.” Was that all? This guy was just gonna mess with Dean’s meds, pat him on the back, and send him on his way? That didn’t seem right.

“I also have a list of therapists I can refer you to, if you believe that would help you,” Doctor Novak went on, “Personally I believe that having a professional to talk to is invaluable and that you should at least give it a try, Mr. Winchester.”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean said, “I don’t want to pay some poor asshole to listen to my problems. Other people have real problems and shit. I’m just sad all of the time.”

“Mr. Winchester, I believe being ‘sad all of the time’ is a perfectly valid reason to speak with a therapist.”

“Can’t I just talk to you? You’re my doctor.”

“I’m your general practitioner. A therapist has specialized tools that can help you better than I can,” Doctor Novak said, “Please, take a list of recommendations and see if it helps. I’ll send the prescription changes to your pharmacy and they’ll have it ready for you. Your file indicates that your pharmacy is at the Albertson’s on Maple? Is that accurate?”

“Yeah, still there,” Dean said. At least that made his life easy. That Albertson’s was across the street from his apartment. He could run to the grocery store, pick up the new meds, knock ‘em back, and then wallow in his own misery for the rest of the day – which probably meant rewatching the entirety of the original Star Trek in nothing but his boxers.

“Great. I’ll get that new Zoloft prescription sent. I do also see here that you said your exercise is limited to ‘walking from my bed to the fridge’,” Doctor Novak put air quotes around Dean’s words. Dean had the decency to blush while his doctor went on, “I would suggest beginning a new exercise routine. I don’t expect you to run a marathon or climb a mountain, but a walk a day can do wonders for mental health. I’d like it if you could try that and get back to me on how it’s working. Now, since I just changed your medication, I’m thinking I’d like to do a follow-up appointment in three months. How does that sound?”

“Good. Great. Yeah, I can do that,” Dean said.

Doctor Novak smiled, and it lit up his whole face. Dean’s gut stirred at the sight. _Down, boy_ , he thought. He knew better than to flutter his eyelashes at his doctor, no matter how much he wanted to. Doctor Novak was hitting every one of Dean’s sweet spots with that smile, though, and before Dean could comprehend what he was doing, he smiled back.

“Excellent,” Novak said, “Here’s the list of therapists. It should be fairly easy to discern which ones will take your insurance. Typically they list the information on their websites, but if you can’t find it, I recommend calling and asking.”

Like that, the moment was over. Dean didn’t feel anymore warm fuzzies, because Doctor Novak cut it off before it could be anything else. For all Dean knew, the guy could be married, with a gorgeous wife and perfect children. Doctor Novak looked like the kind of guy that had his shit together. A handsome doctor at a new office, with his stupid sex hair and his stupid, low voice – yeah, Dean was done for.

“Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Mr. Winchester. I’ll see you in three months. Take care.”

**X**

Castiel had none of his shit together.

Sure, his job appeared to be progressing smoothly. Already over half of Doctor Phillips’ patients decided to allow Castiel to take them under his wing. Prior to his retirement, Doctor Phillips served a plethora of people of all different backgrounds – the elderly, expecting mothers, middle-aged men, Dean Winchester…

Dean Winchester deserved his own category. When Castiel walked into his ten o’clock appointment on Wednesday morning, he didn’t expect his patient to be the handsomest young man to ever cross his exam table. No, he did not. Except that is exactly who Dean Winchester turned out to be, and thought the appointment happened an entire week ago, Castiel can’t shake his patient from his head.

 Castiel found himself grocery shopping at the Albertson’s across the street from his apartment complex simply in hopes that he might run into Dean Winchester there – but just because the grocery store was his pharmacy didn’t mean that he was a regular shopper by any means.  And Castiel knew that obsessively shopping at the Albertson’s on Maple made him creepy. He knew that. It didn’t stop him from proceeding to do so, but he kept the knowledge in mind, anyway.

Castiel thanked the bagger at the checkout, who placed his bunch of bananas and his applesauce in his reusable bag. The girl at the checkout eyed him, perhaps wondering why she was seeing Castiel for the fourth time that week.

“I forgot…things,” Castiel told her, lamely. He hoped she didn’t think that he came here to ‘creep’ on her. She was attractive enough, he objectively supposed, but Castiel didn’t sexually care for women. He liked them as friends and colleagues, but imagining a woman in his bed just…didn’t work.

Castiel took his bag and bustled out of the store. He’d lingered over the fruit while inside, and then again in each aisle, as though he might be out of something and had forgotten, as he told the checkout girl. And so he had bananas and applesauce for his bagged lunches that he took with him to work at the office, but he had yet to catch sight of Dean Winchester, the patient whose pharmacy happened to be across the street from Castiel Novak’s apartment building.

While he crossed the street, Castiel tried to distract himself with all the things that he needed to do that week. He worked long hours at the office, and he had to call Gabriel to ensure that he didn’t have chaotic plans to implement during Thanksgiving. Their mother didn’t have the strongest nerve, and Gabriel lived to torment the woman that birthed them. Castiel lived to foil Gabriel’s plans to torment their mother. Though, Castiel also lived to allow Gabriel to torment their older brother Michael as much as he pleased.

The apartment building wasn’t the nicest, but Castiel didn’t require much. He kept a one-bedroom dwelling on the second floor of a complex with several buildings. His building was ‘H’. As soon as Castiel pulled open the door to the second level and strode in, however, he slammed headlong into another body.

“Whoa, buddy, watch where you’re – Doctor Novak?”

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. Before him stood none other than Dean Winchester, wearing an AC/DC t-shirt and a plaid flannel over jeans that had seen better days. Castiel squinted and said, “Dean? What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Dean said, and made a vague motion back at the hallway, “210H, man.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, “I’m 214H.”

“No shit. You’re my new neighbor? How come I never see you?”

“I don’t go out a lot,” Castiel sheepishly said, carding his fingers through his hair. Except to Albertson’s in hopes that he would see Dean, which he did not mention.

“Neither do I,” admitted Dean, “but I’m trying those walk things you said I should do. I don’t know if it’s helping, but at least I’m getting out of my apartment every once in a while.”

“Don’t you work?” asked Castiel.

“Yeah,” shrugged Dean, “but it’s not the same. Work is like my second apartment. Bobby’d kill me if he heard me saying that, but it’s true.”

“Who’s Bobby?”

“Oh, he’s my boss,” Dean said, “And my best friend, and kinda my dad.”

“Only kind of your father?”

“He isn’t actually my dad or anything,” Dean told him, “but he may as well have been. Me n’ Sammy had a kinda crap dad. We were Bobby a lot when we were kids. He taught me everything I know about fixing a car, and well. Now I work for him. Doin’ cars and stuff.”

“Do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it. If I had infinite money, I’d have so many sweet cars,” Dean said, “but for now I’ll just stick with my baby. She’s a ’67 Impala. Most gorgeous car in the entire United States, I guaran-fucking-tee you that.”

Light animated Dean’s face when he spoke about his surrogate father Bobby and his ’67 Impala, light noticeably absent when Dean sat in Castiel’s examination room last week. Perhaps the increase in the Zoloft dosage was already doing its work. Castiel couldn’t help the soft smile that settled on his lips at the thought of a job well-done.

“I’m gonna take my walk now,” Dean said, “but if you ever wanna chill or anything, just knock on my door. I’m pretty much always at home. If that’s okay. Is that cool, if we hung out?”

“Probably not,” Castiel admitted, “You would need to find another doctor.” He wanted so much to tell Dean that he would love to ‘hang out’, but he didn’t. It would be wildly unprofessional, and no matter how much light he saw in Dean’s face, or how much he admired the way that those ripped-up jeans moved over the curve of Dean’s ass, he couldn’t sacrifice his professionalism.

That light drained from Dean’s face at Castiel’s words, and his shoulders slumped.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean said, “I’ll see you around, Doc.”

“It’s Castiel,” Castiel called after him, but Dean Winchester was already gone, the door to the second floor of building H shuddering with the force of being slammed.

**X**

Outside Dean’s bedroom window, snowflakes began to fall and coat the ground in a thick layer of white. It hurt his eyes to look at, and he snapped the blackout curtains closed so that he didn’t have to see it anymore. Work sucked that day, enough that he came home with a six pack of cheap beer and even crappier whiskey.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was Sam,

“Sammy, what’s going on?”

“Dean, hey.”

Something in the tone of his brother’s voice put him off.

“What’s up?” Dean asked, “You sound weird.”

“I, um. I wanted to call and say I’m not gonna do Thanksgiving with you and Bobby this year. Jess invited me to go with her family, and I really want to make a good impression. I’m really sorry, Dean. I just want to be cool with her folks. You understand, right?”

The words _I understand_ stuck on Dean’s tongue. After the day he had, this was the worst news that could come. Instead of saying anything at all, he hung up on Sam and shut off his phone completely. He didn’t need to be interrupted in his next endeavor: to be so drunk that he didn’t have to think about everything that sucked in his life, to be so plastered that something seemed okay. He didn’t know how many fingers of whiskey or gulps of beer he would need, but Dean would do whatever it took to get there.

Shoulders hunched, Dean took to the kitchen, where his liquor store purchases lay across the small card table that he used to eat when he felt too civilized for the couch and coffee table. He took down one of the scotch glasses that Sammy bought for Dean one Christmas. Abruptly, the sight of the glasses made him sick. Dean hurled the one in his hand and let it shatter against the wall with a satisfying crunch.

He poured whiskey into a plastic cup instead and threw it down his throat in one go. It was cheap. It burned. But warmth spread from Dean’s core, and he knew that the job was being done. He cracked open a beer, plopped down on one of his fold-out kitchen chairs, and drank.

Dean didn’t pay attention to the passage of time but counted minutes in measurements of liquor consumed. He knocked back his first beer, then his second, and third – and when he finished the six pack, Dean revisited the cheap whiskey.

Usually after a solid drinking session, Dean drank a glass of water and headed to bed, but tonight, he felt confident. Tonight, there was magic in the air. Dean could walk on water. He could fly. Instead of either of those things, Dean burst out of his apartment and swaggered to 214H. He would show Doctor Novak they could hang out and be fine. And then he would _seduce him_. Dean would have his own Jessica to go to Thanksgiving with, except his Jessica would be a tall, tan, too-fucking-handsome doctor.

Dean didn’t realize how frantically he’d been knocking at Doctor Novak’s door until it swung open and there stood the good doctor himself, not at all dressed as Dean had ever seen him. He wore sweats and an old, worn t-shirt from a half marathon. Of course the good doctor ran.

“Dean?” Doctor Novak said, “Are you drunk?”

“Nah,” Dean said, but then made a pinching motion with his hand and corrected, “Maybe a li’l bit.”

“Let me help you back to your apartment,” Novak said.

“Nooo,” whined Dean, “We’re gonna hang out. I’m a _cool guy_ , Doc.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Novak, “but right now you’re inebriated.”

After wedging a fancy leather shoe in between the door and its frame to keep it from locking closed, Doctor Novak placed his hand on Dean’s back and guided him down the hallway. Dean melted into the touch. He turned around and looped his arms around Doctor Novak’s neck. He said, “Hey, handsome.”

“Hello, Dean,” Doctor Novak said, “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, and he chuckled.

They were too soon in front of Dean’s apartment.

“Do you have your key?” asked Doctor Novak.

Dean patted himself down. He started to laugh when he realized he was out in the hallway in nothing but jeans, a tee, and socks, with nothing at all in his pockets. He hiccupped and remarked, “Oops.”

“You left your key in your apartment?” guessed the good doctor.

“Haha, yeah,” Dean said, and then again, “Oops.”

“Does somebody have the spare key?” asked Novak.

“My brother,” Dean said, “but I’m mad at him right now.”

Doctor Novak sighed. He said, “Come on, let’s go to my apartment. You need something to eat.”

“Oh, Doctor Novak,” Dean laughed, “Are you taking advantage of me?”

“My name is Castiel,” was the reply, “and I would never take advantage of somebody drunk, Dean.”

“Casteel,” Dean laughed, “That’s a funny name.”

“Castiel,” Doctor Novak corrected gently, “and it’s the name of an angel.”

“Hey. Hey, Cas.”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Did it hurt?” Dean asked.

“Did what hurt?” asked Cas-tee-el.

Was it possible that no one had ever tried to pick up Cas with this line? Amazing, Dean thought.

“When you fell from heaven,” Dean said. He chuckled again, and then hiccupped once more.

Castiel guided Dean out of the hallway. He kicked his shiny leather shoe aside and let his apartment door close behind him. 214H looked quite a bit different than 210H. Sure, the floorplan was the same, but Castiel had barely unpacked a damn thing. A cream-colored leather couch sat in the living room before a spotless glass-top coffee table, but that was the extent of the furnishings. Boxes lay stacked against the walls, which were blank of art or personal touches.

“How long have you lived here, man?” Dean asked, “Got nothing in your place.”

“Um. A few months?” Castiel said, as though guessing.

“No one helped you unpack?”

“No. I have a brother nearby, but I don’t trust him with my belongings,” Castiel said. He waved a hand at the leather couch and said, “Please. Sit down. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Dean grabbed Castiel’s t-shirt and suggested, “Better idea. What if… _we_ …made a…sandwich.”

Castiel’s brows swept together. He scrunched up his face all funny. It was cute.

“Are you propositioning me?” asked Cas.

“Yup,” Dean said, “Hell-ooo Doctor Sexy.”

“You are very intoxicated,” was all that Cas said. Dean was disappointed, but forgot to continue to be so when Castiel ducked into his kitchen and started opening cabinets and drawers and the like. He returned not too much longer later with a sandwich on a plate, but it didn’t look like any kind of sandwich Dean had ever made.

“What the fuck is this?” asked Dean.

“A peanut butter and banana sandwich on whole grain,” Castiel said, glancing at the offending sandwich, “Please eat it. When was the last time you ate anything?”

“Lunch?” guessed Dean, “I had some Tic Tacs at work.”

“That does not count as sustenance, Dean Winchester.”

“Oh. Well, I dunno then. I like eating too much and sometimes I don’t want to eat at all. It’s part of the fun of being sad all the time,” Dean said. He laughed, because he didn’t know what to do other than laugh. If he didn’t laugh, he would cry. He didn’t want to cry on Doctor Sexy’s leather couch. He was at least sober enough to know that was a terrible idea.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess it helps. I know when I need to take it ‘cause I start wanting to drown myself in my bathtub.”

“Dean,” Castiel said softly.

“What? Right. I forget sometimes people don’t like knowing that I’m sad. I’m super _not sad_ , Cas, don’t worry. I am _so happy_  like _all of the time_. Was that better?” Dean cast Castiel a shit-eating grin, but it did nothing to wipe the intense frown on the guy’s face. Dean felt his smile flicker and dim into a flat line. He wondered if he should apologize, but decided to stuff Castiel’s weird sandwich in his mouth so that he didn’t have to make a decision either way.

In moments the sandwich vanished. It tasted a little funny but wasn’t half bad, although Dean did have to wonder if the thing had drugs or some shit in it, because as he licked his fingers clean of peanut butter, his eyelids started to droop.

“I’m real sleepy, Doc,” Dean said.

Castiel pressed a glass into his hand and said, “Drink some water before you fall asleep. I’ll watch over you.”

**X**

Castiel woke to somebody banging on his apartment door. He groaned and rolled off of his bed, cramming his feet into slippers with a yawn. He shuffled out of his bedroom and with mild surprise remembered that Dean Winchester was sleeping on his couch, cocooned in the blankets that Castiel provided for him. At the moment all Castiel could see of Dean was the fuzzy top of his hair sticking out from the burrito he had rolled himself into sometime during the night.

The knocking on Castiel’s door started again.

He opened it, expecting to find Gabriel or perhaps a disgruntled neighbor, but instead found a tall, long-haired man he had never seen before. Castiel asked, “May I help you?”

Desperation flickered across the young man’s face. He said, “I’m looking for my brother. He’s your neighbor – uh, 210H? We had a disagreement last night and he hung up on me, so I went to check on him but he isn’t at home. Have you seen him?”

Castiel stepped back from the door and said, “He’s on my couch. You must be Sam.”

Relief washed over Sam Winchester’s face. He scraped his hand through his hair and said, “Thank God.”

Castiel closed the door behind Sam and pointed to his living room before he stepped into the kitchen to brew himself a pot of coffee. Mornings and Castiel Novak were long-time rivals, and this morning thus far was winning their game.

“He’s asleep?” asked Sam, hovering over Dean’s blanket-tangled body.

“Yes. He got drunk and locked himself out of his apartment.”

“Thank you so much for taking care of him,” Sam said, “He’s depressed, you know. I worry about him.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh, are you friends?” asked Sam, “You seem – new.” He made a vague motion at the boxes scattered around the apartment.

“I’m his doctor,” Castiel said, and folded his arms.

**X**

“He’s depressed, you know. I worry about him.”

“Yes, I know.”

Dean’s head pounded. He shifted and held a groan back in his throat.

“Oh, are you friends? You seem – new.”

That sounded like Sammy’s voice. Fucking Sam. Anger bubbled up in Dean’s stomach before he could stop it. All at once, he felt like he wanted to vomit.

“I’m his doctor.”

The vomit feeling doubled at the words, and as the night before came back in sharp-edged pieces, Dean launched himself from Castiel Novak’s couch and stumbled to the bathroom, whose location he knew only based upon the fact that 210H and 214H shared the same floorplan.

Dean knelt before the toilet and vomited. He let his cheek rest against the cold toilet seat while his stomach churned. As he heaved a second time, he heard footsteps behind him, and a hand settled on his shoulder.

“Dean?”

It was his brother.

“Fuck off, Sam.”

“Are you okay?” asked Sam.

“Do I fuckin’ look okay, Samuel?” Dean snapped.

Sam withdrew his hand and shrunk back. Good, Dean thought, feeling vicious. Sam didn’t need him, so Dean didn’t need Sam, either. He could orchestrate his own damn self-destruction, thank you very much. Dean wiped his mouth on his arm and used the bathroom wall to leverage himself to his feet. He turned around to face the music, and saw Sam fully dressed and looking like he knew what the fuck he was doing, and Doctor Novak swaddled in a gray robe and slippers, shadows hinged underneath his blue eyes.

Those damn blue eyes would be the death of Dean.

“Awesome,” Dean said, “This is humiliating. I’m just going to go back to my apartment and drown myself.”

“ _Dean_!” Sam exclaimed, horror etched across his stupid face.

“Right. That almost happened once,” said Dean, “My bad.”

Dean shouldered his way past Castiel and Sam and stalked to the door. He didn’t need to further indulge in this shit-show. He’d already scared the shit out of his little brother and drunk-propositioned his goddamn doctor, who Dean shouldn’t have had the hots for in the first place. Sam followed Dean out of Castiel’s apartment, as he knew that he would, and demanded, “Dean, what were you thinking?”

“That I wanted to be good and drunk,” Dean said, “I wasn’t thinking. Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t want to have to think. When I think, it’s all bad shit, all ghosts and skeletons and shit I can’t shake. _You_ get to live everyday thinking about normal crap like a normal human. You’re not gonna understand why somebody with a fucked up brain might want to forget being fucked up for a little while.”

“Dean, that’s not fair,” Sam said.

Dean wished he had his apartment keys so that he could slam his door in Sam’s face, but instead he had to wait for Sam to brandish the spare key and let them both in.

“You’re living in your own filth,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“You just threatened to drown yourself, Dean.”

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny!” Sam cried.

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean sniped back.

Neither of them would forget the ordeal several years ago, when Dean’s undiagnosed depression bottomed out to a dangerous place. He lost it. Dean still wasn’t sure what happened to send him spiraling to a mental hellhole. It was like reason and rationality went blank and all that was left was this bottomless chasm – and Dean was falling, falling, falling. There was no way to claw himself out. So he dismantled a disposable razor, climbed into the bathtub, and slit his wrists.

Sam found Dean, and it turned out that Dean wouldn’t have bled out – his cuts were too shallow – but he did almost drown. Needless to say, Dean landed in the hospital and shortly thereafter got shipped to a looney bin for two months before they felt he could function like a normal goddamn person.

Turns out the looney doctors were wrong, and Dean was never going to function right. He was just busted.

“I’m really worried,” Sam said, voice soft, “It hasn’t been this bad since –”

“Since I tried to off myself,” Dean finished, “Yeah. Got it. I don’t feel like talking to you right now. Will you just leave?”

Dean almost took back the words when he saw the wounded puppy-dog look on Sam’s face, but he clenched his jaw and stood by what he said. He wanted to be alone right now. He was hungover and pissed off and in no mood to be reassuring his little brother that he’d be okay.

“I don’t think I should leave,” said Sam.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” Dean responded, “because I think you should.”

Sam sighed out a long, tired breath. He said, “Okay. I’ll go. But please…turn on your phone. And call me if you need anything. I’ll be here for you.”

“Yeah, sure you will.”

Dean slammed the door in Sam’s face.

His first order of business was to vomit in his own toilet, after which Dean swished cinnamon-flavored mouthwash to get the sour taste out of his mouth. When he looked in the mirror, a haggard man stared back at him. His skin was sallow, eyes ringed in shadow, and his hair bristly and untamed. Dean looked like a wreck. Hell, he was a wreck.

Dean batted open the cabinet below the kitchen sink and moved aside the random shit he’d thrown inside until he found it: a disposable razor, dismantled. He’d cut himself up with it more than once, though Dean hadn’t done that in a while. He kept the thing though…just in case. How messed up was that? He kept a stupid dismantled razor just in case he needed to hurt himself.

Shit, shit, shit.

This had gone too far. Dean didn’t want to fall back into the chasm. He _could_ claw himself out. He knew that. He’d done it before. Dean threw the wrecked razor in the bathroom trashcan. He turned back to his bedroom, where his phone still sat on his mattress, switched off to spite Sam. He turned it back on and texts and voicemails from his brother assaulted him in seconds. Guilt crept in at the edges of Dean’s mind. The texts and voicemails went all the way from moments after he hung up on Sam to an hour ago, each more desperate than the last.

It took some doing, but Dean found the crinkled list of therapists that Castiel – Doctor Novak – gave to them at the appointment a while ago. He’d thought about throwing the paper out, but was glad now that he decided to keep it.

Hands shaking and sweaty, Dean dialed the first number on the page.

**X**

Castiel blinked at his laptop screen. Dean cancelled their appointment.

He hadn’t seen Dean in weeks, even in passing. It felt like the world opened up and swallowed Castiel whole. He didn’t expect to feel so attached to his neighbor-slash-patient-slash-not-patient, but here they were. His chest ached, and he knew that the hurt had nothing to do with an existing medical condition.

Castiel _liked_ Dean.

And now Dean cancelled their appointment, the appointment due to happen three days from now.

Silly as he may be, Castiel was looking forward to his appointment with Dean. Not only because he genuinely wanted to ensure that Dean was okay, but because he just wanted to see Dean’s face. He just wanted to be in Dean’s presence. Well, maybe he didn’t have to wait. Dean lived two damn apartments away from Castiel’s.

That was it. Castiel would go over there and ensure Dean’s well-being himself, appointment or no appointment. He crammed his feet into his shoes, threw his cell and keys into the pockets of his jeans, and swept out into the corridor.

But when Castiel arrived at Dean’s door, he hesitated. Maybe Dean didn’t want to see Castiel because he didn’t like Castiel. It would be unfair to violate that. But no. No, Castiel had to see for himself if Dean Winchester was alive and well, and that would be it. If Dean didn’t want him around after that, then that would be that and Castiel would force himself to move on.

Castiel knocked on the door to 210H.

Shuffling sounded on the other side of the door, and a beat following, Dean’s face appeared in the frame. Castiel let out a sigh of relief. Unlike the last time that Castiel saw him, Dean’s face had color in it. His green eyes looked lively and full of light instead of dull and despairing. He looked and smelled freshly showered.

“Hello,” Castiel said, “I noticed you cancelled your appointment with me, and I…I wanted to check on you, because…” He tried to think of something professional-sounding, but words escaped him in that moment.

“Because?” echoed Dean.

“Because I was worried,” finished Castiel, “I care about you, and I was worried.”

Initially surprise took the stage on Dean’s face, but it shifted into a warm, happy smile. Dean said, “Yeah? That’s pretty good news, Cas, because I cancelled my appointment because I want to be able to hang out with you. You, uh, wanna come in?” He stuck his thumb out inside his apartment.

Castiel followed without question.

“Sorry for the mess,” Dean said, “I’ve been trying to clean up a little, but it’s work in progress.”

Castiel liked Dean’s apartment. Movie posters and comic book covers papered the walls. It wasn’t, as Dean said, a mess. Sure, a few dirty dishes littered the coffee table, but the carpet was vacuumed and the entire apartment smelled of some kind of air freshener, the kind that plugged into the wall.

“It smells nice in here,” remarked Castiel.

Dean chuckled, “Yeah, Sammy got me this thing from Bath World or Body Works or whatever the hell that place is called. He said the place smelled too much like pizza rolls, and, well, he wasn’t wrong.”

“So, you reconciled with your brother?” asked Castiel.

“Yeah. I can’t stay mad at him for long,” Dean shrugged, “You want something to drink? I got some Cokes in the fridge or I could make coffee or something.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said.

He realized what he really wanted to do was to kiss Dean Winchester’s stupidly handsome face. He realized second to that that his body moved before his brain, and Castiel now stood with his lips mere inches from Dean’s.

“Um, Cas,” Dean breathed, “What are you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel answered honestly, “but I think I would like you kiss you. Would you be amenable to that?”

“Hell yes,” Dean said.

Dean closed the space between them. He wrapped his arms around Castiel’s neck and tugged him into a tight embrace, slotting his lips over Cas’. Castiel made a soft, happy noise and leaned in, pressing his tongue against Dean’s lips to open them. He hadn’t kissed many people in his lifetime, but he knew that Dean Winchester was a superb kisser, superior at least to any other kiss that Castiel had partaken of.

“This might be a little forward,” Castiel said, “but I think we might be best served if we moved this to your bedroom.”

“Man, I like your style.”

Dean pulled Castiel along to his bedroom, which followed the same pattern of the apartment outside as far as décor style went. An enormous Batman poster hung over a mattress dressed in Star Wars sheets that, when Castiel landed back on them, smelled as though they were fresh from the wash. Dean crawled on top of Castiel and boxed him in with his limbs to better kiss him in long, heated pulls of lips and tongue and teeth.

“So, uh…how do you wanna do this?” asked Dean, “I could suck you off, or we could just touch, or, um…you could fuck me. If you wanted.”

Heat speared Castiel through the gut. Through heavy lidded eyes he surveyed the sight before him, Dean trapping him against the mattress, where Darth Vader watched from the sheets with quite frankly, a little too much interest. Dean wasn’t wearing a flannel over his shirt as he typically did, leaving his arms bare for Castiel to see. Pink and white scars stood in short lines over each of Dean’s wrists. Castiel took one wrist his palm and stroked his thumb over the scars, back and forth.

Above him, Dean blushed.

“You are so beautiful,” Castiel told him, stroking the scars with purpose, “All of you.”

If possible, Dean turned even pinker. He seemed frozen to the spot, so Castiel seized the opportunity and leaned up into a sitting position. He kissed Dean square on the mouth and then guided him to lie back on the mattress. Dean went pliant beneath Castiel, accepting kisses wherever Castiel chose to place them: his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids and forehead and the side of his throat.

The heat of the room curled underneath Castiel’s clothes. He sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head. Dean reached out and stroked the tattoo scrawled across Castiel’s abdomen. He said, “What’s that for?”

“Protection,” Castiel said, “I was a Theology major for a brief time in my life.”

They kissed again, and Castiel managed to coax Dean out of his t-shirt. Topless Dean was a sight to behold: freckled and flushed pink from exertion, nipples at attention under Castiel’s careful ministrations. Cas ran his tongue from Dean’s neck to his collarbone, and then sucked a nipple into his mouth. He had seen countless human bodies over the course of his career, but none compared to Dean Winchester’s. His broad shoulders and nipped-in waist contrasted with the slight softness of his belly.

“Beautiful,” Castiel murmured again, “just beautiful.”

Castiel unwrapped Dean like a Christmas present. Socks and jeans and underwear cast aside, naked Dean truly was more than Castiel ever hoped for. His erect cock rested against his stomach, looking so perfect that Castiel couldn’t help but duck his head down to suck at the tip. Dean bucked against Castiel’s mouth and moaned out the sweetest sound that he had ever heard.

“Sorry,” Dean said, when he noticed Castiel gazing down at him, “It’s…uh. It’s been a while.”

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel whispered. He pulled himself up to run his hands through Dean’s hair and said, “Your sounds are as beautiful as you.”

Dean looked away from Castiel, going ever-redder. Castiel tipped Dean’s chin with the pressure of a single finger and made Dean look him in the eye before he kissed him once more, slow and languid and luxurious kissing that reinforced the strain of Cas’ cock inside his jeans.

“Can you be naked now?” asked Dean.

Castiel laughed softly and replied, “Of course.” He drew himself off of the mattress and undid the fly of his pants, yanking them down with very little grace and pulling at his underwear with even less poise. He crawled back on top of Dean and kissed him everywhere, wanting to memorize each freckle and scar with the tip of his tongue almost as much as he wanted to be inside Dean.

“Where do you keep your lube?” asked Castiel.

“Over there,” Dean said, and jerked his head at the bedside table. Castiel opened and found not only a tube of lubricant but a rather large and intimidating daffodil-yellow vibrator. He lifted his eyebrows and held it up for Dean to see.

Dean grinned and said, “You can play with that another time. I want you inside me today, not a toy.”

“Good gracious,” was all that Castiel could manage, and for whatever reason, those words caused Dean to erupt with laughter.

“What?” Castiel asked.

“That was just super polite,” Dean chortled, “for being naked in bed with a dude.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He rejoined Dean on the bed and murmured hotly against Dean’s ear, “I want you to turn onto your stomach, and once you’re there, you can’t move. Do you understand?”

Dean’s grin widened into something a little more sly. He said, “Of course, Doctor.”

Dean shifted onto his belly and stuck his ass in the air. Castiel sucked in a breath. Dean was beautiful everywhere, from his face to his stomach to his cock to right between his legs, where the soft pink of Dean’s hole stared back at Castiel in invitation. Castiel popped open the lubricant and drizzled a generous dollop onto his fingers. He brushed his fingertips over Dean’s hole and Dean shuddered, but as promised, remained perfectly still.

Castiel breached Dean with a single finger. Dean cried out into his pillow. He looked as though he wanted to arch back into the touch, to take Castiel deeper, but he stayed obedient, and a rush of pride flooded Castiel.

“You’re being so good for me, Dean,” Castiel said.

Dean swallowed and replied, “How’s it looking back there, Doctor?”

Castiel thrust his finger in and out of Dean in lazy movements. He replied, “You seem quite healthy, but perhaps it would be easier to ascertain with another finger. What do you think?”

“Please,” Dean whispered.

Naturally, Castiel obliged. He slid a second finger inside Dean alongside the first. Dean whimpered, and Castiel rubbed inside Dean, back and forth, pressing right up against Dean’s prostate. He wondered if the attention would cause Dean to break his promise to remain still, but Dean only mewled into his sheets and quivered.

“Perhaps one more,” Castiel said, and breached Dean with a third finger. He began with gentle movements, then worked his way to heavy, hard thrusts of his hand.

“Doc, you think you might be able to fix me?” Dean asked. He cast a saucy look over his shoulder.

“Not with my fingers,” Castiel replied, and he withdrew his hand, “I think that I’d be much better suited to help you with the right tools. Would you like my cock inside you, Dean?”

“God, yes,” answered Dean.

Castiel gave a lazy smack to the side of Dean’s ass and manhandled his body into a more accessible position, his ass high in the air and face planted in the pillows, legs splayed wide open, putting Dean’s perfect, lust-heavy cock on display. Dean fisted the sheets while Castiel revisited the lube and poured it over his erection and slicked himself.

With a steady hand on Dean’s flank and another to the base of his cock, Castiel pushed inside Dean. He made it slow: entered him inch by agonizing inch and delighted in the sensation of his cock being swallowed whole one tantalizing increment at a time.

“ _Gunhh_ ,” Dean whined beneath him, “Please. I need more.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Castiel replied, “A little cock goes a long way.”

“Please, Doc,” Dean said, “How am I supposed to get better if I don’t get enough medicine?”

Castiel smiled despite himself. He covered Dean’s body with his and wrapped each of his hands around Dean’s wrists, pinning him to the bed as he withdrew his cock halfway and thrust back inside Dean again. Dean groaned and shook, and begged, “Please. Please, more.”

Castiel didn’t go slowly as he had with his fingers. No, he fucked Dean and he fucked him hard. Dean groaned and whimpered and took it all, content to be pinned down and pounded into. Adrenaline coursed through Castiel’s veins at having Dean so pliable and willing underneath him, so eager to please and so obedient. Cas used kisses as little rewards, pressing his lips to the sweat-damp back of Dean’s neck, to Dean’s shoulder blades, down his arms and everywhere that he could reach to kiss.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Dean Winchester,” Castiel told him, “So gorgeous like this, split open on my cock. You love that, don’t you?”

“I love it,” Dean said, “I love it. Oh, God.”

Castiel shoved Dean down into the mattress and worked harder into him, skin smacking against skin in a slick rhythm. He leaned down and kissed Dean’s cheek. The heated look that Dean turned to shine on him was what did Castiel in: Dean’s feverish green eyes, the sweat beading on his forehead, the bitten lips parted – Castiel came inside Dean with low, raw noise from deep in his chest.

He would have loved to collapse then and there, but Castiel didn’t want to leave Dean hanging. He pulled out with a moan and flipped Dean onto his back. Then, he swallowed Dean’s cock in one fluid movement, taking him in all the way to the back of the throat.

“Fuck,” Dean said. He thrust into Castiel’s mouth and curled his fists in Cas’ hair. He said, “Please. Please let me come, Cas.”

Castiel met Dean’s eyes. He didn’t nod, but he conveyed his permission best he could with a dick down his throat. Dean fucked up into Castiel’s face and then with a cry he came.

Castiel gathered Dean into his arms, breathing heavily.

Dean let out a happy hum and rested his cheek against Castiel’s chest.

“What do you say, Doc?” asked Dean, “Am I healthy?”

“As a horse,” Castiel panted.

**X**

Sometime later, Castiel felt a nudge to his shoulder. He groaned and batted the offending hand away, only to feel himself being jabbed lower, this time right in the stomach. He opened one eye and saw not a pesky older brother, but disheveled, handsome Dean Winchester, body wholly bare, and remembered that he and Dean slept together.

Cas propped himself up on one elbow and asked, “What is it, Dean?”

“Doc, I think I need schedule a follow-up appointment,” Dean said, “The first one went so well, y’know.”

Castiel laughed and let his head fall back into the pillows.

“Give me a minute for me to get my equipment up and running.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, by the end of this fic, Dean is improving with coping with his depression, but it hasn't gone away. It's a little hard to fit all the satisfying details into a small space, but this is a commission and as such isn't super super long. I just really wanted to write about depression and I hope I did it some justice while giving Dean a happy if somewhat cheesy ending.


End file.
